Touching Silver Flames
by Leila Hime
Summary: A look into the dark past and making of one of Esca's charectors. Betcha' guess who long before their name is revealed. May not be appropriate for all readers.


Touching Silver Flames  
  
  
Alone in the darkness there was no such thing as time. Dawn never came and so there was never a night though it was continually dark. And always cold. He curled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his bony arms around himself trying to stay warm. Trying to stay small.  
  
From beneath greasy strands of stringy hair his dead eyes stared intently at the door of his cell where the only light in his small world slipped through. A sliver of light that managed to squeeze itself between the door and the floor. He watched the dark shadows pass and he knew the walk of guards and the dark cloaked men. A heavy step meant food might be coming and the quiet ones might be coming for him.  
  
He sucked in his breath and tucked himself even farther into the corner as a set of noiseless footsteps passed the doorway. The familiar warm fluid crept between his legs as he trembled in the darkness. But they didn't come for him, not this time. They would.  
  
The sounds of screaming filled the hallway outside and slipped beneath the door to the boy's ears. He clamped his hands to his head, but the sound couldn't be blocked. He had screamed like that and would scream like that again, soon.  
  
The cries faded away and slowly he slipped his hands back over his protruding kneecaps. The screams: gone. The footsteps: gone. The shadows: gone, for now. The terror: it never left. The only sounds now were the buzzing of flies that fed off the filth of the cell.  
  
They landed on him and crawled across his naked flesh. If they got close enough to his hands, he'd grab them and hold them squirming in his fist imagining they were the robed men before crushing the life from them.  
  
Heavy steps fell down the corridor and the shadows fell across the light. A faceless guard opened the door; he carried a bowl of foul food and a lantern. The boy covered his eyes while the door was open; the light in the hall was bright and painful.  
  
The guard shut the door as he entered and the boy opened his eyes to watch him and the lantern. The gentle light of the flame. Its glow soft and enticing. The tiny light sputtering to stay alive and casting its gentle glow into every corner of the room as it was placed on the floor. The guard set the bowl down and scowled at the boy.   
  
"Make of mess of yourself, again," he growled. "I don't want to clean that shit up." From the hall someone angry called and the guard left forgetting the boy and his lantern in his haste.  
  
Instantly, the boy's dull gaze was transformed and he stared in wide-eyed wonder at the tiny fire. For the first time in days he crawled from his corner to see closer the gentle light that had so long seduced his fantasies.  
  
He wanted to hold it. To own it. The flame called out for him to do just that. Timidly, he reached out a thin hand to take it, but it bit him as he did. He shoved his fingers into his mouth as the flame laughed at his foolish mistake.  
  
Pain. Why was he always the one hurt? Why was it never the cloaked men? Or the steel guards? They should be the ones being bitten by flame, not him.  
  
Out of the darkness a moth appeared drawn to the light, as he had been. A sick smile crept across his pale lips and he snagged it by its wings. Frantically it struggled between his fingertips trying to break free or break its wings in the attempt.   
  
The Head Sorcerer. The old one, with the long beard.  
  
He thrust the struggling creature into the fire and watched in sadistic pleasure as it turned to ash between his grip.  
  
"Bye-bye," he whispered.  
  
++++++++++++++  
  
The boy was the only living thing in the cell now. Just him and the flame. A small pile ashes at his feet and the air silent of the familiar buzzing of flies.  
  
Satisfaction would not stay. It came in the glorious moment he thrust the living thing into the fire, but faded too quickly. He wanted to burn again; he wanted to burn the cloaked Sorcerers, and the stupid guards and everyone he'd ever seen. Then it would just be him and the fire forever.  
  
It went out. The flame had been burning lower and smaller, but now it was gone and the darkness consumed his world again. He was once again small and weak and afraid. But he was angry now too.  
  
He grabbed the lantern. It's surface already cooled, the memory of the flame did not last long for it. With all of his weak might he threw it against the wall shattering the glass. Angrily he picked up the undamaged base and beat it again and again into the ground until it was nothing but a mass of misshapen metal.  
  
Physically exhausted he lay down amidst the broken glass and shapeless metal. It bit into his skin, but he was too tired to move. He sobbed in bitter frustration. With the flame now gone the darkness, the cold, and the pain now worse than ever before. There was nothing in the cell but him. He wanted something back. Even a bug would have dispelled the intense loneliness inside.  
  
Damn the guard. Damn the cloaked Sorcerers. It was probably another cruel test of theirs to make it all worse. Damn them all.  
  
Next to his head a piece of glass as long as his palm lay reflecting in the halls mean light.   
  
He reached his hand up and took it. Already he knew what to do. All that was left was to wait.  
  
++++++++++++  
  
The screaming started at the far end of the hallway. Dozens of voices joining together in fear as cell door were flung open their occupants dragged out. They were taking everyone.   
  
He didn't clamp his hands over his ears this time. The screaming was enjoyable. All the other fools who struggled but always submitted in the end. He didn't want to be one of them anymore.  
  
The cell door banged open admitting his stupid guard and the bright light.  
  
"Shit, boy," the man exclaimed, his eyes growing wide. "What the hell did you do in here?" A heavy boot landed on the boy's chest, but he refused to cry out or shed tears. Deep inside him a fire raged, swollen inside his chest.  
  
"Stupid freak," the guard muttered. "Don't give me any more trouble." He grabbed the boy's thin arm to pull him to his feet.  
  
In one swift movement the glass shard was embedded in the man's exposed temple. His mouth opened in a silent scream but only blood came out. The boy shoved the shard deeper feeling the warm sticky blood rush over his fingers and down his arm.  
  
The man slumped over in the growing pool of his own blood, and boy got up, a crazed and hungry look on his face. He'd done it; the man was dead.  
  
He slid the long sword from the sheath of the dead man and ran into the bright hallway.  
  
++++++++++++++++++++++  
  
He leaned against the wall resting for a moment his body exerted from the heaviness of the sword now dripping with blood, and his legs not used to running. The corridors crossed here, behind him now the dead guards, and before him more victims to be taken.  
  
He glanced at the small mass of naked nameless boys standing behind him. Like lost sheep they stared at him with enormous eyes waiting for his next move. Most of them clumped together crawling on their hands and knees if they couldn't stand. Only two had drawn weapons from the dead guards, but the blades were too heavy for them fight with.   
  
His determination, his rage, his hate had all made him strong. Years of darkness, fear and hunger wiped away with the blood that spattered his naked skin. Blood that was for once, not his own.  
  
Nobody spoke, just looked to the pale nameless one who led them for what would happen next. For him to take out the next steel guard, for him to lead them down the corridors. It wasn't satisfying enough just killing the guards. It was too easy, their minds and arms distracted by the children they drug along. He wanted the Sorcerers; the dark cloaked men who had made him suffer so much.  
  
Rested, he started down the next hallway. He remembered the way, remember where'd he'd been taken so many times, and knew the dark ones would be there.  
  
++++++++++++  
  
A small pile of limp pale figures rested in one corner. The six Sorcerers stood around a bawling little boy struggling to get away as they tried to inject his arm with a long needle. Nearby a guard stood his iron grip on the arms a pair of boy's clinging together. They stared open terror at the Sorcerer's; even the guard seemed rattled.  
  
The long needle slid into the boys arm and almost instantly he collapsed to the floor. The bald Sorcerer dragged his limp body and placed on top of the others. He looked up at the door.  
  
"You weren't suppose to bring that one," he growled. "That's the one that worked. Take him back, and bring the next one."   
  
The pale boy lifted the heave blade up. It was time for his revenge. He rushed at the Sorcerer the sword brandished before him. The look of terror on the man's face. It was wonderful.  
  
He drove the sword through the dark cloak with every ounce of strength he could call upon until nothing but the hilt was left.  
  
Screaming. Chaos. Panic on the faces of the other Sorcerer's.  
  
"Guards!" one man screamed before the needle in his own hand was shoved into his belly by the boys pale hands.  
  
"Call the soldiers," the bearded one cried. "They're out of control."  
  
The pale boy turned to face the bearded Sorcerer. The one who'd tortured him so much. Seething hatred boiled inside of him. He would have his revenge and kill them all. Or die trying.  
  
+++++++++++++++  
  
A soldier stood framed by the bright light. The boy sat in the center of his cell glaring at the man. The same type of soldier that had stopped him a week ago. Two Sorcerers dead, twelve guards, one of their kind, three of the young boys who'd followed and soon him as well. He was sick of waiting. He'd tasted freedom, he'd tasted blood, and now he'd rather die than live as he had before.  
  
Killing the Sorcerers had been great, but he was hungry for death again and angry he'd only managed so few.  
  
The soldier tossed a small package at his feet. "Put that on."  
  
"Why don't you just kill me now?"  
  
"Just do it."  
  
A pair of britches he found on top and a sleeveless shirt. He stood up to put them on.  
  
"Don't look," he snapped, conscientious for the first time of his nudity.  
  
The man laughed gruffly. "After what you did? Not a chance."  
  
The boy slipped the trousers on and the sleeveless shirt with minimal difficulty; it was the first time he could remember wearing clothes. The soldier stifled his laughter.  
  
"Why bother with all of this? If you're just going to kill me."  
  
"We're not. The generals don't care about second-rate guards or the Sorcerers. They only care about fighting and winning wars."  
  
Nothing else was in the package except a silver chain and tags.  
  
"What are these?"  
  
"Dog tags," the soldier said and pulled out his own. "You impressed some people with your little "stunt". You're being enlisted in the military. Well, the academy until you're old enough."  
  
"I'm not going to be killed?" the boy asked again.  
  
"Not yet," he replied. "You'll probably be killed on the battle field sooner or later. That's what the dog tags are for so we can identify your body later. Tells us your name if we can't recognize your face."  
  
"My name? What is it?"  
  
The soldier took the dog tags and held them up the light. "Dilandau Albatou." He handed them back. "Come on, boy. You're leaving this place."  
  
The boy, now Dilandau, followed the soldier into the bright hallway staring captivated by the un-tarnished silver tags. Dilandau Albatou. His name. His own name.   
  
A grin spread across his face. He'd make the whole world tremble at it.  
  
  
  
1  
  
  



End file.
